


The Cost of Living

by amporasbitch



Category: Real Person Fiction, Youtube RPF
Genre: Dark wants to make a deal, Female OC and Dark don't like each other a whole lot, Female OC makes deals, Gen, I'm not sure how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 19:37:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13508382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amporasbitch/pseuds/amporasbitch
Summary: Voodoo is a figment that provides a simple service: Give her a valuable possession of yours and a item that belongs to someone you want to hurt, and she can use herself as a voodoo doll to hurt them so you don't have to.Darkiplier could certainly hurt who he wants without her help, but this time, he deems it necessary to try asking. The question is, how much will he have to offer? Will it be enough?





	The Cost of Living

**Author's Note:**

> So, I made myself a dark persona! My nickname on Tumblr is Juju, so I figure dark me would be Voodoo. I drew her and described her on my Tumblr here: http://juju-on-that-yeet.tumblr.com/post/170205116880/spookyscarydarky-i-drew-my-dark-ego-like
> 
> If she sounds interesting to you, then read on and tell me what you think! I'd like to write more about her in the future :D

Dark can’t believe he’s doing this, but he supposes he has no choice if he wants to enact his plans easily.

He doesn’t enter the room (an office) right away, rather, he listens to the conversation happening inside. Both voices are female; one is some unknown human, the other more familiar.

“I found that asshole in bed with another woman, and I want you to kill him.”

“Sure, makes enough sense.” Dark can practically hear the figment smirking and nodding understandingly. “So, what are you giving me to use as a bond?”

“Here.” The sound of something being handed over. “It’s one of his ties.”

“I figured,” the figment says coolly, “And what are you paying with?”

A clatter of something tiny and metallic being set down.

“My wedding ring.” The human’s voice is strained, now.

There’s a pause as the item is appraised, Dark can tell without hearing or saying a thing. He’s seen the figment do it before, knows how she conducts business. He knows she’ll be doing the same to him in a minute. He grits his teeth to think it.

Then laughter breaks the air, cackling and cruel.

“What the hell is so funny??” asks the human, indignant.

“You know how this works, don’t you?” the figment guffaws in response, “Don’t answer that; of course you do, that’s why you’re here. I need your most valuable possession to kill someone for you, what makes you think this is good enough?”

“Well, I mean,” the human sputters, “It’s my _wedding_ ring.”

“Yeah, and?” the figment counters, “He cheated on you and you’re pissed enough to want to kill him, clearly it can’t mean that much to you anymore. It might be valuable to a pawn shop, but to you, it might as well have come from a cereal box, and I don’t work for pennies.” Her tone becomes bored. “Come back with something you care about or don’t come back at all, but right now, we’re done here.”

“You—!” Dark can practically hear the human’s face reddening with anger. “For your information, I’m _not_ coming back!” She begins to stomp away, feet thumping the ground.

“Mmmmm, I doubt that,” the figment says, but the human keeps going. She’s so enraged that she doesn’t even see Dark as she brushes past him.

Dark, for his part, takes in a breath. He hates to ask anyone for help, least of all _her_. But it’ll make things easier in the long run, so he straightens his back and walks into the office.

The space is large, but it looks small thanks to the clutter. There’s items of all kinds littered about the floor and piled up to the ceiling, blocking most of the windows: Dog tags, photos, rings, art pieces, clothes, phones, laptops, and nearly everything else that could ever hold value to a person. At the center of the room is a desk, and Dark already knows that the drawers are full of weapons, guns and knives and lighters and screwdrivers and razors and more, instead of office supplies. Most importantly, sitting at the desk is the figment he’s been listening in on, the figment he’s here to see: Voodoo. She doesn’t notice Dark right away, so Dark has a moment to observe her. To see her brown hair, shot through with blonde and as unkempt as ever. Her green dress, stained brown in places from shed blood. The scars trailing over her hands, up her arms, and across her face and neck from previous jobs. Most striking of all, her cunning eyes: One a milky blue-gray, and one not an eye at all, but a shiny black button stitched into the socket. She finally looks up and sees Dark, and her one eye narrows.

“Ugh, what do you want?” Voodoo groans, “What did I do that deserves scolding this time?” She huffs out a petulant breath. “Make it quick, would you? I don’t want you scaring off clients.”

“That’s not why I’m here,” Dark growls, already annoyed with her.

“Oh?” Voodoo asks, surprised but still wary, “What then?”

It’s Dark’s last chance to scrap the plan, but he knows he can’t.

“I…require your services,” Dark mutters.

He hates the way Voodoo’s face lights up.

“Woah, really? Are you kidding??” She asks. “Oh my god, you aren’t kidding,” she says in response to Dark’s sneer, “This is _rich_.” She leans forward in her chair. “The great and powerful Darki-fucking- _plier_ needs _my_ help to off somebody. What’s the matter? Don’t wanna get your hands dirty? Or, even better,” Voodoo continues, grinning like a maniac, “You’ve finally met your match? You’ve finally made an enemy you can’t obliterate with a snap of your fingers? _Do_ tell!”

“It’s another figment,” Dark says, trying to keep his composure, “I could hurt them myself, but I’d prefer not to make it any more difficult than it has to be.”

“So the first one then,” Voodoo says casually, “I see, I see. So, you want me to kill this other figment, or what?”

“I want you to gauge out his eyes,” Dark says, voice like steel.

“Woof,” says Voodoo, still grinning, “Gnarly. Not looking forward to being blind for a few days, but eh.” She shrugs. “It can definitely be done, but I gotta tell ya, it’s a lot harder to perma-harm a figment than a human. Plus, I don’t like you.” She taps her fingers on the desk, pretending to think. “How about this: Give me your most prized possession and I’ll take this figment’s eyes for you.”

Dark had expected as much. Ordinarily someone’s most valued belonging is reserved for a murder, but Voodoo’s prices are not set in stone. He sighs.

“Fine,” he says, snapping his fingers. His piano appears beside him, black and shiny and beautiful. Dark’s had it for a long time, and has spent many a sleepless night playing it. “I trust it’s sufficient.”

“Well, it’s a bit hefty,” Voodoo admits, “But I can manage, as long as it’s as important to you as you want me to believe.”

She turns her head, casting her button eye onto the instrument. Dark isn’t unnerved by the button; that would require fear. But there’s certainly something that he can’t stand about it. Maybe it’s the way it glints sometimes, shining in a way that doesn’t match the light falling on it. It’s as if it’s not just a button with a bit of power imbued, but something stranger and more sinister altogether. For all Dark knows about the egos he keeps company with (and he does know quite a bit), he doesn’t think he knows everything about Voodoo’s eye. Dark knows fully well that one cannot control that which they don’t know. Hell, that’s the whole reason he’s here at all; to destroy something he cannot control.

He watches as Voodoo finally turns her head back to Dark, expression unreadable.

“Well?” Dark prompts.

Voodoo shakes her head.

“Nope, sorry,” she says, “Except I’m not.” Dark’s aura crackles in the air, but Voodoo ignores it as she goes on. “This piano is important to you, definitely, but it’s not the most important.”

“What exactly do you purpose,” Dark seethes, “Is more valuable to me than this?”

“Beats me.” Voodoo shrugs. “But there has to be something, the eye don’t lie.” She taps the edge of her button eye with a finger. “In fact,” she continues, “Something tells me you already know what it is, whether you want to admit it or not.” She leans forward again, a sardonic, hungry sort of smile on her face. “So what’s it gonna be, Dark? How badly do you want my help?”

She’s right, and Dark hates her for it. He considers her question. Is it worth it? He internally scolds himself. Of course it is, it has to be. He needs her help to secure power, put himself back in control. No material possession could be worth more than that.

He snaps his fingers again, and the piano disappears, replaced by a glass-tipped black cane appearing in his hands.

Voodoo blinks, clearly surprised to see such an innocuous item, but doesn’t comment, instead turning her button eye to it. Dark swears he sees the eye shimmer somehow in the low light of the room.

“That’s the one,” Voodoo says, satisfied, “Thanks for being honest, even if it took you a minute. Now,” she says, grinning, “Who’s the poor soul about to lose their eyes?”

Dark doesn’t answer Voodoo right away, instead removing something from his pocket and setting it down on the desk before her. It’s a pen, well-used, ink caked around the nib. Voodoo only has a moment to put the clues together before Dark speaks.

“The Author,” he says.

Voodoo’s blue eye widens, then narrows as a vicious snarl warps her face. She rises from her chair, slamming her palms down on the top of her desk.

“ _No,_ ” she growls, “What the _hell_ do you take me for?”

Just like that, the situation flips, and Voodoo assumes the defensive as Dark slips back into control like it were water.

“I have sufficient payment,” Dark says calmly, “So what’s the problem? Business is business, you’ve said as much yourself, my dear.”

“I’ve told you not to call me that, you fucking lowlife,” Voodoo snaps, “And my problem is that the Author is my fucking _friend_ , and you know that. Business is business, yeah, but it’s _my_ business, and I don’t care _what_ you offer me, I’m not hurting the Author.”

“I’m _trying_ to play fair,” Dark says with an even tone, “I am giving you exactly what you require. Why is it now that you decide to develop morals?” He stares at Voodoo. “I know who you are, and I know how you are. You do this work because you enjoy causing pain. Why does it matter where the pain comes from? The Author never has to find out who took his eyes. It can be between us alone.”

“As if I believe that,” Voodoo counters, now vibrating with rage, “As if you won’t hold it over my head for the rest of my existence to keep me in line. Oh, no, Voodoo,” she says in a mimicking, mocking tone, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, I might tell the Author that you betrayed him for a stupid goddamn _cane_.” Dark almost flinches, and Voodoo almost smiles. “Yeah, right. I’m not giving you that kind of power. And if I don’t have morals, I can hurt and not hurt people for arbitrary reasons, yes? So my arbitrary reason for not hurting the Author is that I like him, and I don’t want to help you.” She shrugs, but it’s clear she’s still angered. “I guess that’s two reasons, but whatever.”

“You can help me,” Dark growls, undeterred, “Or I will make you regret it.”

Voodoo barks out a laugh.

“What could _you_ possibly do to _me?_ ” she bites back, “I’m not scared of you, I’m not scared of your void, and I’m sure as hell not scared of pain. There’s no way you’d ever kill me; hell, you might as well kill the Author if you hate him enough to want to blind him, but you aren’t. Maybe you could stifle my business, but who has the time? Are really mad enough at me to spend weeks or months meddling with humans who want my help until they don’t want it anymore?” She’s grinning again, but it’s the angriest smile Dark has ever seen, and her blue eye is blazing with manic hate. “There’s nothing you could threaten me with to change my mind. If you want to blind the Author so bad, do it yourself. I’ll have no part in it.”

“Perhaps I cannot force you,” Dark admits, “But answer me this, Voodoo: If you hate my plan so much, then why are you merely leaving me to my own devices instead of trying to stop me?”

“Because I can’t force you, either,” Voodoo replies, suddenly almost sad. Her button eye glints. “I can’t stop this, I can see that clearly. But just because it’s inevitable doesn’t mean I have to hasten it.” She shakes her head. “At this point, it’s all about whose side I want to be on, and it sure as hell isn’t yours, Dark.”

The two glare at each other across the desk for a long moment.

“Very well,” Dark finally says, “I take it you will not inform the Author of our discussion, then?”

Voodoo shrugs, looking away.

“There wouldn’t really be a point, would there?” she mutters.

“Very true,” Dark replies, “It’s a shame you couldn’t help me, but I’ll manage on my own, won’t I?” Dark asks. Voodoo doesn’t answer, doesn’t even look at him. Dark turns to leave, a wicked smile on his face. “Goodbye, Voodoo. Best of luck with your work.”

He leaves Voodoo’s office as quietly as he came in.

Once he’s gone, Voodoo is alone. She lets her gaze travel back in front of her and realizes that the Author’s pen is still on her desk. Voodoo knows Dark well enough to know that he didn’t forget about it; no doubt he left it there on purpose, to rub his plan in her face. She picks up the pen and sighs, walking from her desk into her bedroom through a door near the corner. She shoves a pile of objects out of the way to get into the room, stepping over an array of items littering the floor, items too special to be left among the others in her office, for one reason or another. But no item in the room is so important to her as the one she holds in her hand now.

Voodoo sits on the edge of her bed beside her nightstand, turning the pen over and over in her hands. Already her fingers are blotched with leaking ink. She wonders if the Author has noticed the disappearance of this pen, if he ever will notice. Lord knows he has enough pens already. She almost chuckles to herself thinking of the Author’s cluttered desk, of the pens and pencils and even the few quills spread over the surface, of the notebooks and journals and bound volumes stacked up around him when he works. The whole cabin, really; just as cluttered and messy as Voodoo’s office is, just as chaotically organized. Author can find a specific notebook or pencil as easily as Voodoo can find a specific item among the piles in her office and remember how she got it. She thinks about all the items she’s recalled for him, all the things she’s showed him and anecdotes she’s retold for him to use as inspiration, and how he in turn has shared with her his stories, showed her how he reshaped each protagonist’s life with his words. How they both laugh at humans, at their pettiness and weakness, how it’s up to the two of them to make them worth something, to make them influential in one way or another.

Voodoo wonders how much longer that’s going to last. Her eye can only tell her the if, not the when. She wonders how many times she’ll have to face the Author with the knowledge of Dark’s plan in her heart.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers as she slips the Author’s pen into the drawer of her nightstand.

She can’t recall the last time she said those words and meant them.


End file.
